


pie in the sky | decim

by nihilisten



Series: my reader inserts [18]
Category: Death Parade (Anime)
Genre: F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-27 15:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21394570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilisten/pseuds/nihilisten
Summary: Namelessherefor evermore.[decim/reader]
Relationships: Decim (Death Parade)/Reader
Series: my reader inserts [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1048064
Comments: 7
Kudos: 62





	pie in the sky | decim

The first thing you notice is that you’re trembling.

The air is rather mild here, but for some reason your body keeps shaking. You try and rub your shoulders together in an attempt to warm up, but to no avail. Why did you do that, you wonder. You’re not even cold, the long sleeves of your blouse prevent that; you’re also wearing thick boots as if you have been taking a walk outside.

…The thoughts stop in your mind upon realisation that you just _analysed_ your own attire.

You look around wherever you’re standing in. It’s a lift. You can’t remember getting here, you can’t, for that matter, remember anything prior to the moment you realised you were trembling. There’s only this nagging feeling in the back of your brain, something persistent but very unclear, like a smeared window blocking you from seeing the full picture.

You realise you’re trembling out of _fear_. It’s physical rather than anything else; your body is scared, not your actual person. Of course, how could you be scared if there’s nothing you remember worth protecting?

The lift stops and opens.

You step out – not because you want to, but because staying there could make you seem funny. There’s no one to witness how hard you try to look natural, though; you find yourself in a long, red-carpeted corridor with a bamboo grove and a pond on the side, leading a long way ahead. There’s no other exit and before you realise, the lift has left as well. Having no choice, you decide to walk down the corridor.

It feels like walking through oblivion. Your mind is empty and the corridor is quiet. You feel nothing, not even the softness of the carpet can reach you because of the boots you’re wearing. Everything seems distant and artificial. Would you bleed if you shattered a window and cut yourself just now? Funny, even that seems somewhat impossible—there are no windows here anyway.

Finally, you reach the end of the corridor. A space resembling a bar spreads before your eyes; it’s dim, with no sharp lights assaulting your vision. There’s a man in a bartender suit standing behind the counter. He bows as soon as your eyes land on him.

“Greetings. Welcome to Quindecim. I’m Decim, the bartender.”

You keep quiet, staring at the man as if he spoke in another language. Though you sense no hostility in him, he seems slightly perplexed, like he has been anticipating something. It’s difficult to say for sure, though, because his face is expressionless like a doll’s.

“I’m terribly sorry to ask, but has no one else arrived along with you?”

You blink; he’s asking you a question. Your lips are dry, your throat lumped and you’re not sure you can even speak. You swallow and, finally, a voice you don’t recognise leaves your mouth.

“No… I was alone.”

Poor choice of words, you think as soon as you finish. It could have been expressed in so many other ways, such as ‘I didn’t see anyone’, ‘There was no one else’ or ‘I’ve met no one on my way here’. But out of all those ways, you said: I was alone. It sounded somewhat… aloof.

The bartender – Decim – nods.

“Please take a seat.”

You obey, only because there’s nothing else to do in a bar. Decim turns his back to you and proceeds to prepare a drink you never ordered. But you don’t dare to point this out; you don’t dare to do anything. Your body has calmed down a bit, though it’s still covered in goosebumps.

The drink that Decim places before you is a faint orange colour. He waits for you to take a sip – it’s sweet and tastes of mango – and then speaks up again.

“Allow me to ask another question. Do you remember anything before you came to this place?”

You squint as though something sharp pierced your mind.

“I…”

No, there’s nothing. Nothing but the smeared window that blocks you from seeing. You feel like you’re missing something crucial, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t see.

Only your body starts trembling again… Shaking in fear of whatever it is that you can’t see.

“—No,” you utter finally, looking down at your palm. “I can’t… My mind is blank.”

“That is enough. Thank you,” Decim replies simply.

“But my body…”

He looks at you, polite interest on his face, and you raise your palm for him to see it’s shaking again, shaking so bad that you wouldn’t be able to hold the glass without spilling. You have no idea why your body feels so foreign to you, like that shaking palm is not your own, but at the same time, the overwhelming fear in your body somehow is able to reach the depths of your heart.

When Decim doesn’t show any reaction, you sigh and hide your palms under the counter, still unable to stop trembling. Under normal circumstances, you’d feel embarrassed about your miserable state, but even that is out of reach. There’s only this nagging feeling and the physical fear making you more and more uncomfortable.

“Let me explain the situation,” Decim speaks up. “First, I can’t tell you where you are. Second, you’re going to participate in a game. Third, you cannot leave until the game is over. And fourth, you’ll be risking your life during the game.”

You look over at him in silence. He’s probably expecting a reaction from you, so you deliberately give him the same treatment he gave you mere seconds ago. When it brings you no satisfaction, you give in.

“What if I don’t?”

“I wouldn’t advise that.”

The wall behind Decim suddenly slides open, revealing a dark passage. In the shadows human silhouettes are hanging from the ceiling like grotesque shadow play. When you look over at Decim, his expression is dead serious, pun intended. You feel like you could burst out laughing this instant—if only you remembered how to.

“If that’s blackmail, it’s poorly executed,” you deadpan instead.

“Wha—B-but dear customer,” Decim tries to maintain his composure, and fails miserably. “It would be in your best interest if you played the game.”

Now he’s really desperate. But it’s not your concern.

“I don’t have a ‘best interest’.” You look down to see your own reflection in the faint orange drink. The face you see looks completely foreign. “You said I can’t leave until I play, is that correct?”

“Yes, that would be the case.”

“Fine then.”

Much to Decim’s surprise, you stand up and walk away from the counter, disregarding him completely. He doesn’t stop you. You don’t look back either.

Next to the bar there’s a hall of some sort, perhaps a billiards room or a room for whatever game Decim was talking about, though there are no tables here. You take a seat on one of the couches, opposite a huge water glass. It’s full of jellyfish, from where you’re sitting they look like they’re floating in the air. You rest your head on the bolster and close your eyes.

* * *

When you come to, you’re in an unfamiliar bed. Furthermore, you’re in an unfamiliar room.

You sit up and look down on your hands. They aren’t trembling anymore, but they still feel like someone else’s hands.

You’re more perplexed that you don’t actually _feel_ perplexed than that you’ve been sleeping in a foreign bed.

Relieved to discover you’re still in your clothes from before, you leave the room and, once again, find yourself in the bar—Quindecim, was it. Decim is standing behind the counter, polishing a glass. Once he notices you, his palms stop in their tracks.

“Hello. Did you sleep well?”

“I… don’t know,” you answer truthfully; you don’t feel rested well, nor do you feel tired. You just are – however ridiculous the situation may seem.

“I see.” Decim nods. “Shall I make a morning drink for you? A cup of tea? Hot cocoa?”

“…Huh?”

You blink at him, taken aback by the offer. Maybe it sounded funny because he’s a bartender? But then again, out of all things, you’re getting taken aback by _this_? Sighing in resignation, you take a seat by the counter.

“Hot cocoa then, please.”

“Of course.”

You watch Decim as he moves swiftly behind the counter, heating the milk, pouring cocoa, then placing the drink on the counter in front of you. The mug has a funny cartoon design printed on it. It is beyond you how such a mug ended up in Decim’s possession, if it is even his.

The hot cocoa warms you up from the inside. It should be reassuring that you’re able to feel heat after all, but somehow you can’t bring yourself to care.

“…Are you sure you’re not going to play the game?” Decim asks suddenly, his tone of voice almost pleading. That’s new, though you’re not sure what to make of it.

“No,” you don’t bother to come up with excuses.

“You might remember something.”

When there’s no answer, Decim nods, albeit somewhat distressed, then returns to polishing glasses. He’s neat and diligent, just like this bar. Though your head is a mess, at least it’s not an unpleasant place to be, you think as the bartender’s deft hands move along the glass.

“No one came along with you after all. Truly an uncommon situation,” says Decim.

“People usually come here in couples?”

“Yes. But even if, for some reason, they don’t, I can usually convince them to play the game.”

“What’s this ‘game’ you’re talking about?” You straighten your back and lean over the counter, as if to look more persuasive. “Why do people come here? Why did _I_ come here?”

Decim doesn’t answer, though he seems to be hesitating. You’re not cooperative, but if your situation is that unique, you might be able to get something out of him.

Finally, he mumbles:

“You still don’t remember anything, right?”

“No… Just this weird sensation and my body trembling like… like I was scared of something.”

Silence falls. Decim puts the polished glasses on the shelf, seemingly deep in thought. Then he reaches for the phone that you haven’t noticed on the counter before.

“Hello, Nona-san. —Yes, she doesn’t remember, but can’t be persuaded into playing the game. —No, she came on her own. Since I must carry on with my duties, maybe it would be beneficial to let her—no, of course not. All I’m asking for is some time. —Yes, I understand. Thank you very much.”

He puts down the receiver, then sighs as if after a very long battle. You glance at him curiously.

“My superior allowed you to stay here for the time being. Some of your questions might be answered very soon.”

You cock your head to the side.

* * *

The first time is fairly interesting. From your seat at the counter, you observe a middle-aged couple as Decim tells them the same things he explained to you. They’ve lost their memories too. The man is angry, the woman looks terrified. Eventually they agree to play and push the button. The game turns out to be yahtzee.

As they play, Decim stands there, watching them attentively, much like you’re watching him. His back is turned to you, and the couple is too focused on the game to even pay attention to you. Every few minutes one of them seems to have remembered something, but nothing out of ordinary happens.

Eventually, the game is over. The man wins. Both look extremely anxious, almost sure that they’re going to get killed. Decim apologises for not explaining earlier. He says he’s an arbiter who judges people’s souls when they die. The couple start crying.

He walks them to the lift, the same one you arrived here in. Above the doors, two white masks appear. The couple disappears after looking at each other for the last time.

Decim stands there for a few seconds, then turns towards his bar – towards you. You glance at him, eyes holding so much pressure that they could crush. He ignores it.

“So I’m dead?”

“…Yes,” is the answer to that peculiar question.

You rest your chin on your palms. That must be why everything seems so distant, isn’t it? You’re dead. But no memory of that is left in your mind, you can’t remember anything from the time you ‘lived’. If you even lived at all.

A sigh escapes your lips.

“And I came here to be judged by you. To be sent to Heaven or Hell. Funny thing, I never believed in the afterlife.”

As soon as you say that, your heart skips a beat. How do you know what you believed in if you can’t remember who you are? Strange… Those words just naturally rolled down your tongue, like they belong there. Decim’s eyes never leave your figure.

“Have you remembered something?”

“…No,” you shake your head.

“I see.”

For the first time, you start to feel discomfort. This isn’t how it should be. It’s supposed to be the afterlife, yet you’re an error, a mistake. Nothing is correct about your situation.

You’re dead, but you have no memory of living. Your body seems to remember something, but you feel like a stranger in that body. A smeared window keeps blocking your vision…

Even though you’re dead, it’s somehow dejecting.

“I can’t stay here, can I,” you mumble to yourself rather than to Decim. He keeps quiet anyway. “You need to judge me or it’s meaningless.”

“I’m an arbiter. My duty is to judge souls.”

“Yes, I heard you. So just send me to Hell.”

Decim’s eyes widen ever so slightly. You absent-mindedly notice a funny pattern on his visible iris; like a cross or spokes of a wheel. It’s unusual and beautiful at the same time.

“Why do you…” he pauses.

“There’s no Heaven. There can’t be. I didn’t say complete truth back then, you know. I only believe in Hell.” You have no idea why you’re speaking with such confidence because certainly, you’re not speaking for yourself. It must be muscle memory. When the realisation hits you, you hide your face in your palms. You feel powerless.

“Actually, you’re quite correct,” Decim points out from behind the counter. “Heaven, as such, is simply a metaphor we use. In reality, people reincarnate. Meanwhile Hell is a place of nothingness, where souls suffer for eternity.”

“You’ve never lived, have you?”

The sudden question takes Decim aback. You grip your hands on the counter, so hard that your nails start hurting.

“I haven’t,” he confirms.

“Then let me tell you… That place where people suffer for eternity, it sounds very much like life.”

Quindecim is a good place. You could accept it as the afterlife. But it’s not your afterlife, it’s just a passage, not the final destination – like a platform at a train station, you’re waiting there to get somewhere else.

You stand up.

“Send me to Hell, emptiness, whatever that is.”

“I cannot,” Decim’s voice is as calm as ever. “I must judge you like everyone else. My superior allowed me to do that within an extended time period.”

“Why? What difference does it make if you just send me wherever?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“Please, Decim. Don’t make me reincarnate. Please.”

He doesn’t waver under your gaze. Why you’re getting so desperate, you have no idea. But the words that you speak next sound so sad… so full of despair… that you start believing those feelings are really yours.

“I just… don’t want to live again.”

He never answers.

* * *

The days you spend in Quindecim pass by. Do they turn into weeks or months? You can’t tell.

People come and go, judged by Decim. They all follow the same pattern; soon you’re able to predict their actions, if they’re going to be friendly or hostile, you can even guess whether they go to emptiness or reincarnate. For some reason, it never gets tedious.

No memories return though. You don’t know who you were, who you are and how you died. Decim won’t tell you either. If he even knows, that is.

“Say, Decim.”

He stops whatever he’s doing behind the counter and looks at you.

“Yes. What is it?”

“Why can’t I remember anything?”

He thinks for two seconds. “Normally, people’s memories get wiped before they arrive to Quindecim.”

“But mine weren’t?”

“…I’m not sure,” he answers honestly. “The information department say they didn’t miss anyone from about the time you came. Double checked.”

“Then why does my body remember?”

Everything’s wrong here. If they had wiped your memories, you wouldn’t be having those flashbacks that aren’t even flashbacks. It’s like you have been inserted into an empty shell, except in reverse – it’s the inside that’s empty, not the shell.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed it isn’t your body,” Decim lowers his gaze and the wall behind him opens up.

You’ve seen it before. People’s bodies, creeping up in the shadows, hanging upside down like grotesque corpses. You blink when Decim extends his hand towards you.

“Come with me.”

He leads you into the dark backroom. Soon you realise those aren’t bodies, they’re mannequins. Some twisted, some broken or damaged, while others are neatly dressed and seated, almost human-like.

“Those mannequins… You keep them to intimidate people.”

“No,” Decim shakes his head. “I keep them here because it’s my hobby.”

“Hobby?” You raise your eyebrow, then look around the dim room. From the inside, it doesn’t look so disturbing.

“They are all the people who have ever come to Quindecim.”

If you had blood in your veins, you’re sure it would froze just now.

“What does that mean…?”

“There can’t be bodies in the afterlife. People’s souls are kept in temporary shells—the mannequins. Once they leave, I collect those shells.”

“Why?” you ask, then correct yourself. “I mean, why is it your hobby to collect them? You have this much of spare time to do that?”

At first, Decim keeps silent. His lone eye looks over the numerous mannequins like they are very precious to him. Seeing him like that makes you feel… Yes, just that. It makes you _feel_.

“…I don’t want them to be forgotten.”

Shortly after, you two return to the bar. Decim offers you a drink, and you accept for lack of a better idea what to do. As you sip the sweet liquid, thoughts come into your mind.

“So I’m one, too. A mannequin.”

“Yes.”

“Then why do I keep having those muscle memories?”

No answer. Decim seems at a loss for words. You imagine it must be pretty ridiculous, so you can’t blame him. Maybe it really is someone’s error, and once it’s fixed, you’ll be judged like any other person. Still, it feels frustrating.

“If you played the game, you might be able to remember more than that,” Decim reminds.

“No. I told you, it’s Hell or nothing.”

“Why do you insist on going there so much? From what I’ve seen, you don’t deserve emptiness.”

You ponder for a bit. Why is it that you willingly want to go to a place people call Hell? Though you have no memories to support that, for some reason, it feels like Hell is way better that returning to life. For some reason… life and Hell don’t seem so different to you.

You keep quiet.

“Please, dear customer.

“…”

“This can’t go on like this. You’re running out of time.”

You stand up abruptly. Where your hand was mere seconds ago, there’s now a pile of skin-coloured crumbs. When you look at your palm, you notice something like a trace of peeling paint.

“What—”

“You can’t stay here or you’ll turn into a mannequin,” Decim looks into your eyes and for the first time, you see sorrow on his face. He truly wants you to go. He truly wants to save you from what he sees as the cruellest fate.

Little does he know that you can’t imagine poorer fate than what you believe you already experienced.

* * *

Soft knocking at the door resounds in the bedroom, but you ignore it, curled on the bed.

“Dear customer. Please open the door.”

“Leave. I’m not your customer,” you mumble into the duvet.

“Your soul will evaporate, leaving only the shell. Please open the door.”

Not bothering to answer anymore, you let out a muffled sob. It’s not Decim’s fault, no – but he’s the one who’s supposed to kick you out. Even in the afterlife, you just don’t belong…

There’s a click and the door opens. You’re too tired of crying to even turn your face to look at Decim. He stops next to the bed.

“Customer.”

“I’m not a customer,” you hiss. “I have a name.”

“What is your name, then?”

Obviously, you don’t know an answer to that. You know nothing. Your mind is pretty much a black hole, empty and vast.

Decim sits on the edge of the bed.

“Why don’t you just… cooperate?”

“Why should I? I’m fine with turning into a mannequin.”

Judging from a sharp breath he sucks in, followed by an extended period of silence, you imagine Decim must be shocked. Why would a person willingly choose to disappear? Too bad you don’t know that yourself.

“I—” Decim’s voice quavers, “I don’t understand.”

“Yeah.” Something akin of a bitter laugh resounds in the room. “Me neither.”

You finally agree to leave the bedroom and hang out at the bar instead. More and more paint is peeling from your limbs, but you don’t dare to look in the mirror. You’re scared of seeing your face, which doesn’t even feel like your own, crumble to dust.

A customer arrives. It’s a man, seemingly too young to have died, in his early twenties at most. He’s calm despite the situation, and the game that’s selected is war. Before he and Decim proceed to the hall, the man turns to you:

“Why don’t you join us, lady?”

You blink. “I… Sorry, I’m just waiting for someone.”

“I see.”

He leaves you alone. Decim pretends to have ignored your lie.

They start playing and for the time being, everything seems like usual. The customer slowly remembers his life. The number of cards in Decim’s hand decreases. If you didn’t know any better, it would look like any innocent game.

The man wins. Decim tells him the truth about this place, but he still smiles brightly in your direction before stepping into the lift.

“Wow, I really had a good time. Hope to see you again, lady!”

You know he won’t. The lift closes, a red mask appearing above the door.

Decim turns away and starts walking back to the bar. You don’t move a finger from where you’re standing.

“Why?”

He stops.

“Why did you send him there?”

“I saw his memories. He abused his mother and sister.”

“Can you see mine, too?”

Facing the lift, back turned towards Decim, you can only sense how tense he gets.

“Can you?”

He answers reluctantly, “No.”

You can’t stay in Quindecim, you know that. Even now, right at your feet, there’s a pile of crumbs. What happens if you never leave? Will you drift off as if drowning, or will it be quick, just a click, like turning off the lights?

“Send me there. You have no reason not to.” You tighten your fist.

“I told you. I can’t.”

“Why? Why can’t you just do it? You’ve never even lived!”

Your voice starts shaking and before you can realise, wet droplets are running down your cheeks, along with layers of paint. You don’t belong, there’s no hope. You can only wait until you disappear.

Or—the thought appears suddenly—you can decide for yourself.

_Yes._

You leap forward, shabby fingers pushing in between the lift doors to force them open. It comes easier than you expected; black pit opens up underneath like jaws of a bloodthirsty beast.

A smile appears on your lips. At least you think it’s a smile.

And then your head starts spinning.

“…!”

You stumble and fall to your knees. Your hands grab the wall, managing to stop the fall, and your head halts abruplty right above the edge of the lift shaft. You can look into the pit now. It’s black, black and never-ending.

The smeared window suddenly shatters.

Wind swishing in your ears. The lift clattering, far from stable. Your whole body shaking in fear, trembling uncontrollably—

You find yourself floating in thin air, but you’re not falling. You’re hanging.

Thin, silver strings hold you up, gently yet firmly, by your arms. You’re seized, unable to do as much as move a finger.

But you don’t notice.

Your mind is elsewhere.

“Oh my God.”

Footsteps echo in the corridor, and soon Decim appears before your hanging figure. The ends of silver strings are attached to his hand; he’s the one in control now, much like a puppeteer controls his marionettes. You’re powerless.

“I… I saw it,” voice weakly arises in your throat, but it comes out as a mere whisper. You allow your head to hang freely until your chin touches your chest. “I saw it. My death.”

“Is that so?” Decim sounds indifferent and caring at the same time.

“I was going to kill myself, jump off a building. But the lift cables snapped. It fell. I died in a lift and the afterlife also began in a lift. Just my luck,” you laugh bitterly.

Using his strings, Decim lets you descend to the floor. As soon as your feet touch the ground, though, your wobbling legs give up. You wait helplessly to yet again collapse to your knees, but just before the fall, a pair of strong arms embraces you. Your vision is blocked out.

You have no idea what is going on.

“I’m so sorry. You did the best you could.”

You’re not sure why he’s praising you or apologising to you. It’s not like it’s his fault you died like that, nor that the afterlife was similar enough to cause physical trauma. You’re still shaking, tears falling down your cheeks, and you still know nothing about your life.

The only thing you know is death. Death and what comes next.

“I…” sobs and Decim’s vest are muffling your voice. “I don’t want to return there. I don’t want to ‘fix’ it. I’m fine with Hell, I really am. I’m just so, so tired.”

Decim’s body stiffens slightly. He pulls back, lonely eye boring holes in your own teary ones. You sniff and wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand. Layers of paint peel off, mixing with tears.

“Hah. I must look like a disaster. Don’t worry, Decim,” to your surprise, you smile. “I’ll disappear very soon, won’t I?”

It’s okay. You don’t belong. After all, seeing through that smeared window changed nothing. You don’t know your name, who you were, and why you killed yourself. There’s really no reason for you to ‘proceed’.

What you don’t expect, though, is for Decim to pull you into his embrace yet again.

“You’re not a disaster. You’re beautiful.”

The tears don’t stop falling for a very long time.

* * *

The doors open, revealing a spacious forest with a house in the very centre. Decim steps out. No matter how many times he’s been here, he can’t help feeling somewhat uneasy.

Nona is lying outside, reading a book. Upon seeing his subordinate, she raises an eyebrow.

“Decim. Is there anything you need?”

At first, he’s unsure how to put it into words. It’s not the first time he’s experienced doubts about being an arbiter. Complaining to his superiors seems a bit tactless every time, but he’s determined to settle this matter.

Before he can speak, though, Nona’s face grows dissatisfied.

“It’s about her, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Decim nods.

“Well, what do you intend to do? Either you judge her, or she’ll disintegrate. We shouldn’t let any soul go to waste, you know it.”

“I am aware of that. But,” he clenches his fists, “I’ve come to a conclusion that the current system is lacking. Neither emptiness nor reincarnation is sufficient in some cases.”

“What do you mean, not sufficient?” Nona frowns. “It’s not like we can change the system to our liking. It’s been like that for millennia. And Oculus would have to approve.”

“Still, I think we should open up for another possibility.”

The air is tense, and Decim feels a shiver down his spine. Criticising the system, especially to Nona, is hardly a good idea. But at least he’s going to try.

“I asked myself this question: why do we call reincarnation ‘Heaven’?”

“Because it’s easier for humans to grasp.”

“Why do they believe in Heaven, then? At first, I couldn’t find an answer. I thought it was either black or white, Hell or Heaven, reincarnation or emptiness. But then I realised why they want Heaven to exist so bad.”

“Well, why do they?” Nona sounds impatient. He must get to the point.

“It’s because they want to rest. And I believe they deserve that rest.”

A bird flushes nearby. Silence falls; Nona’s stern eyes are glued into Decim’s face.

In the afterlife, there are no exceptions. Every human being must be judged by an arbiter, then fall into emptiness or reincarnate. That’s how it always was, and how it always is going to be.

Unless—

“And how do you know they want that, Decim?”

The tenseness in the air lessens, if only a little bit. Decim feels like a great weight has been lifted from his chest.

He sighs in relief, then answers with might:

“I’m an arbiter. It is my duty to know.”

* * *

When you come to, you’re in a familiar bed. Furthermore, you’re in a familiar room.

You sit up and look down on your hands. They aren’t trembling anymore, nor do they feel like someone else’s hands. There’s no trace of paint peeling off, no feeling of artificiality.

You jump out of the bed and head straight to the bathroom. The mirror reflects your face, clear and plain, with no imperfections. It’s the same face that was reflected in a drink a few ???s ago. It’s your face.

Once you get ready and enter the bar, Decim greets you with his usual tone of voice.

“Hello. Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, I think so,” you answer, sitting on a stool by the counter. You feel oddly… normal, as if your mind was cleared of heavy clouds. “Can I have a drink? Whatever you recommend.”

“Of course,” says Decim and proceeds to work on your request.

You look around Quindecim. The same bar, the same red-carpeted corridor with a bamboo grove on the side, the same hall with a tall water glass. You could get used to it. You feel like you already are.

“I’ll never know who I was, won’t I?” you look down at the drink Decim has placed before you. A small smile is reflected in the pink liquid. “I’m not having those flashbacks anymore. I should be glad, but still…”

“Excuse me for asking, but why does it concern you so much?” Decim looks at you curiously. There’s no malicious intent in his question; he’s asking purely because he doesn’t understand.

“Hm, I guess you couldn’t tell, but that’s how humans are. We always chase what we can’t get. That’s probably our worst quality.”

“I beg to differ,” Decim shakes his head. “I respect humans who lived their life to the fullest.”

“Well, that hardly sounds like me, does it? After all, I killed myself.” You chuckle, then sigh. “I wish I could at least remember my name.”

The next thing Decim says catches you off guard. A simple question, one that anyone could ask to advance the conversation, yet in this moment… it sounds sincere and even reassuring.

“Why don’t you name yourself, then?”

“Huh? I’m not sure. What if it sounds stupid?” you let out an embarrassed laugh. “Can’t you name me or something, Decim?”

Though you’re half joking, he nods and brings his palm to his chin, deep in thought. After a few seconds, his lone eye glimmers.

“How about… Cael?”

Cael. You repeat the name a few times under your breath. It doesn’t sound bad, in fact, the more you say it, the nicer it rings in your ears. You turn to Decim with a smile on your lips.

“Okay. From now on, I’m Cael.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Cael-san.”

Quindecim is a good place. People come and go, and that’s how it should be.

Seeing through that smeared window changed nothing. You don’t know who you were, and why you killed yourself. And it’s okay.

“Decim?”

“What is it?”

“Thank you.”

But now you have a name.

And you belong.

**Author's Note:**

> Cael is Latin for sky or heaven.  
Also: this was supposed to be like, 1k words. Hardly happens to me to end up with a much longer story than I originally intended, but I feel like it's okay this time.


End file.
